


Bright Ideas (That Don't Go As Planned)

by crzy_wrtr10



Category: Rivers of London - Ben Aaronovitch
Genre: Boarding School, Casterbrook, Drunkenness, Gen, Hurt No Comfort, Injury, Look! It's gen fic!, Mattress Surfing, Nightingale's time at Casterbrook, No Spoilers, Too much consumption of gin, Vomiting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-03
Updated: 2018-05-03
Packaged: 2019-05-01 11:28:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,890
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14519532
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crzy_wrtr10/pseuds/crzy_wrtr10
Summary: Possibly the greatest wizards of our generations, and we are truly idiots.Thomas, having seen his break from studying stretch from five minutes into at least two hours by then, leaned in the doorway with his shirtsleeves rolled to his elbows and another glass of gin in his hand.Whitman spun the empty bottle, and it pointed, rather slowly, at Thomas. “Are you in, Nightingale?”Or: Thomas Nightingale at Casterbrook, a round of truth or dare, and things that Don't Go As Planned.





	Bright Ideas (That Don't Go As Planned)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [AgarthanGuide](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AgarthanGuide/gifts).



> HI. 
> 
> I pulled this out of the depths of my WIP folder, gave it an ending, and agarthanguide is the best kind of enabler there is. 
> 
> Hi small fandom. I've missed you. (I also read THE FURTHEST STATION over the weekend and thoroughly enjoyed it.)
> 
> This story contains no spoilers for anything, I think. Though if you don't know about Casterbrook that might be an issue. 
> 
> **MAY SQUICK: there is mention of an injury (a dislocated shoulder) and some pain-induced vomiting. Please read with caution if this upsets you or may squick you.**
> 
> Otherwise, enjoy. :)

_Possibly the greatest wizards of our generations, and we are truly idiots._

Thomas, having seen his break from studying stretch from five minutes into at least two hours by then, leaned in the doorway with his shirtsleeves rolled to his elbows and another glass of gin in his hand. 

Whitman spun the empty bottle, and it pointed, rather slowly, at Thomas. “Are you in, Nightingale?”

His head was a little fuzzy, and while there was one examination left for all of them, it wouldn’t be anything resoundingly difficult for him. And besides, he’d grown tired of watching the others have all the fun, even if the hadn’t expressly invited him to have a seat on the floor. 

“Yes. I’m in.” He drank some more gin. “Truth or dare?”

Whitman considered this for a moment, sucked on his teeth a little, and finally spat, “Truth.”

Thomas tapped a finger against his glass. “Who swapped out Dean Hollenby’s good brandy with colored vinegar while the man was sat in his office adjacent to his library?”

He had the decency to flush. “Geoff and Horace.”

Every eye in the room turned to look at the pair of them, and Horace covered his face with his hands. Geoff blinked. The rest of the boys roared with laughter, and Thomas was very glad there was a silencing spell on their dormitory floor as a whole. They took turns with it every so often, so no one person would be left with the strain for the entire night.

“Your turn, Nightingale.”

Thomas took another slug of gin, and sent the bottle spinning with twist of his fingers. When it finally came to a stop, it pointed to Geoffrey. Geoff crossed his arms over his chest; Thomas held out his mostly empty glass for a refill when the gin bottle came by again. He had the feeling he’d need it. 

“Truth or dare, little bird,” Geoff said. 

He wasn’t ready to give all his secrets away – especially not ones anyone had been speculating over for the last three or four years – and went, instead, with a brazen, “Dare.”

From the slow, dirty smile curling over Geoff’s face, Thomas had a brief flash of panic that he might have been better off with truth, instead. 

“I dare you to mattress surf without magic from the top of the main staircase to the bottom.”

Thomas straightened. “Mattress surf?”

Geoff’s smile grew wider and sharper. Thomas made an aborted movement to loosen a tie he wasn’t wearing. 

 

The only silencing spell was on the lot of them where they gathered off to Thomas’s left. On the floor in front of him, poised for him to step onto and start down the staircase, was his own mattress. He had decent balance, though the corner landing from the first floor downward would be a challenge. But if he grabbed the bannister and heaved himself around the corner like a slingshot, it _could_ work…

“You don’t have to do this, Tom,” Horace said quietly. “It’s just a stupid game.”

Thomas glanced at the others, notably Whitman and Geoffrey. He swallowed heavily, knocked back a solid mouthful from his glass, and handed it to Horace with a, “Hold my gin.”

“No magic, little bird,” Geoffrey called as a reminder. 

“Arse,” he muttered, and before he think more on it, he jumped onto the mattress, arms out for balance. His added weight tipped it past the angle of repose, and down the staircase he started. He heard the others thumping along behind him, some of them cheering him on, and others whooping in general states of drunkenness. 

He made it down two flights of polished staircase and picked up speed. He’d studied enough physics to know the principle of what he needed to do to make the turn, but practice was a different matter. 

The force required to turn him and the mattress close enough to keep from taking out the antiquated bust of a former headmaster strained his shoulder, and he swore loudly when he heard it pop. His entire arm went momentarily numb; he teetered back on his heels, his good arm windmilling wildly, and every muscle in his torso strained to keep him upright. He didn’t want to know what it would feel like to thump his head off the last, and longest set of stairs in the whole of Casterbrook. 

Unfortunately, he hadn’t accounted for the speed he’d picked up as he’d slingshotted himself around the corner. 

Thomas and the mattress careened onto the freshly polished marble main floor. He made the mistake of trying to get a foot down to slow his momentum, and wound up slewing wildly. He had time to mutter a loud “Fuck!” before he smacked off a doorway and went sideways into the legs of a display case and the pedestal of a vase from 340 B.C. 

In hindsight, he was quite lucky the damn thing hadn’t hit him in the head. Instead, it smashed to pieces just to his left.

It was unearthly quiet in the aftermath as the dust settled, and he picked his head up slowly from the floor. His cheek and jaw stung – probably from where he’d slapped his face off the marble – and he blinked in surprise at the carnage around him. 

There was silence from the direction of the staircase. 

“Thomas? Thomas, are you alright?” 

Woozily, he turned to look at Horace, who had crept partway down. 

Several lights flicked on at once, and the sound of running footsteps echoed through the halls. Someone yanked Horace back up and out of sight, and Thomas managed to get himself sat up on his rear by the time several of his teachers and Hollenby himself had arrived.

“Good Lord, Nightingale,” Trench murmured. “What did you do, boy?”

“I, uh…” Thomas trailed off, not quite sure what he could say. Instead, he swallowed thickly, and let Trench haul him roughly to his feet by his good arm. His stomach roiled at the abrupt change in position, and his left arm hung uselessly at his side, that side of his chest throbbing. 

“You smell like a distillery.” Trench held him at arm’s length. 

“You’ve been drinking?” Hollenby demanded. 

“Yes, sir.” Thomas met Hollenby’s glare unflinchingly. 

“Might want him to take him down to hospital,” Parker pointed out, thumping his cane on the floor. “That arm’s not right.”

Hollenby stepped closer, and Thomas dropped his eyes to his shoes. “You and I are going to have a long discussion about this, Nightingale. _All_ of this.”

“Yes, sir.” He didn’t dare look at the staircase. 

“Come on, boy, let’s go get you seen to.” Trench dug his fingers into Thomas’s arm, and began marching him in the direction of the doctor’s rooms. 

Thomas took several deep breaths and resolutely refused to throw up. He was a fetching shade of pale green by the time they reached the hospital portion of Casterbrook. They gave him a bucket, and Trench held him still while the doctor wrenched his shoulder back into place. 

He vomited, choked, and then promptly passed out. They used smelling salts to bring him back around, and he blinked stupidly at Hollenby who stood in front of him, perfectly incandescent with rage. 

“You will tell me _everything_ ,” Hollenby said, arms crossed over his chest. 

Thomas considered his choices – and the potential consequences of those choices – and took a deep breath. Then he did something he’d never done, nor had he ever thought he’d do: he lied through his teeth to the headmaster. 

 

“Do you think he said anything?” Whitman whispered as they waited for their exam to start. 

“Not if he knew what was good for him,” Geoff murmured. 

They were allowed into the classroom, and there, in the front corner of the room, was Nightingale. He looked bloody awful – there were dark circles under his eyes, and one of them was partially swollen shut. The beginnings of a great, ugly bruise ran from his jaw to his forehead on the right side of his face, and his left arm was in a sling. He stared straight ahead, though anyone who passed him could see his throat working as he swallowed repeatedly. 

None of them had the chance to speak to him before, during, or even after the exam – Nightingale was ushered from the room by a rather ruffled-looking Trench after the papers had been collected, and they didn’t see him again until a few hours before dinner. 

Whitman wouldn’t even have known he was coming unless it were for Horace’s softly voiced, “Thomas?”

“M’fine, Horace.”

“You don’t look fine.”

Nightingale huffed out a laugh, and came slowly around the corner, one hand on the wall for balance. His sling was gone, though he kept his left arm tucked protectively against his ribs. With his shirt untucked and his tie missing, Thomas looked more unkempt than Horace had ever seen him before. 

“I will be fine,” Thomas said, pausing to lean against the wall. 

Horace pretended he didn’t see his legs shaking. 

He sucked in a breath and carried on. He made it to Whitman’s doorway and rested on his good arm against the jamb. 

“Hollenby took you personally to hospital last night,” Whitman said slowly. “What did you tell him?”

There was the collective feeling of baited breath inside the room. 

“Nothing.” Thomas’s right eye was swollen partially shut. 

“ _Nothing_?” Geoff repeated. 

“Nothing.” He shifted his weight from foot to foot with a grunt. “And I’ve got the welts to prove it.”

“What did he use?”

“The paddle. I think I’d almost have rather had the cane.”

The room twitched in sympathy. 

“You want to sit down?” Geoff asked. “We’ll even find you a pillow.”

The corners of Thomas’s mouth twitched. “No, thank you.” He’d honestly like to go flop gracelessly onto his bed, but not attending dinner wasn’t an option. Trench had informed him of that after his exam. 

If he started now, there was the chance he could make it all the way downstairs with most of his dignity intact before the rest of Casterbrook stampeded in for dinner. 

Thomas pushed away from the door frame and began shuffling back the way he’d come. 

“Well done, little bird.”

He didn’t turn. He kept his eyes on his feet and smiled, Horace hovering near his elbow. 

 

**Years Later**  
“Well this is horrendously familiar,” Thomas said dryly a few feet back from where Peter had flopped an old mattress at the top of the main staircase in the Folly. 

“You’ve moved mattresses before?”

“…you could say.” He discarded his jacket and rolled up his sleeves. “Have you ever mattress surfed?”

Peter _goggled_ at him. 

“Watch.” Thomas loosened his tie and popped the top button on his shirt, the phantom taste of gin on his tongue. He rolled his left shoulder. “No magic.”

“Sir?”

All he was missing was the silencing magic and the mostly drunk horde watching him. 

“And no bloody vases at the bottom,” he muttered, hopping onto the mattress and starting down the stairs. 

He came to a much smoother stop at the bottom than he had years earlier. He stepped calmly off and looked up at Peter’s dumbstruck expression. 

“Just like that?” Peter croaked.

“Just like that.” Thomas smiled, and, at least for a moment, felt seventeen and carefree again.


End file.
